


spies & consequences

by edgehog



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, War, good god y’all what is it good for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 01:28:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12877278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edgehog/pseuds/edgehog
Summary: Eight soldiers were lost in an ambush, and Hamilton wants to make it nine.





	spies & consequences

“General?”

There is no one outside the tent - no sentry, no guard, no one watching.

From inside comes noise. A voice, muffled and furious.

Burr argues with himself. Grits his teeth. Goes forward. “Pardon my interruption, ...”

Hamilton is alone. He wipes his nose on his sleeve, but his eyes are steady, without a trace of tears. “Washington isn’t here.”

“I see that.” Burr sees even more. A stack of papers - wrinkled, curled, and water-spotted, like they’ve been carried long distances in a coat-lining. Strings of numbers - a book code. And a terse letter lying open next to it. A few sentences, the rest of the page blank.

Alex follows his gaze. His cheeks are flushed. “You shouldn’t even be in here.”

“I had news for his Excellency.”

Hamilton makes a harsh noise.

“What?”

“ _His Excellency,_ indeed. You know he sent back a British missive, —twice —because it didn’t address him with enough _pomp_?”

“Hamilton—“

“I thought we were deposing a king, not _electing_ one.”

“Lower your voice.”

“It doesn’t matter who hears me. I’ll say it to his face. And your news doesn’t matter, either. He knows already. And I know. _He_ knows, because I _told_ him, and he’s _gone_ because I told him -“

“You—“

“Told him to get out, told him I’d ... I would ... _He kept me from that raid._ I wanted to go, I needed to go, I needed to be shoulder to shoulder with my friends while they — and he wouldn’t let me. I should have gone, I _should_ have, I should—“

“I’m certain the General knows better than—“

“I should have died too,” says Alex: and this time he covers his face and openly weeps. It’s a raw sound and moist, like a mallet striking flesh.

Burr says his name - once, twice — Then _“Alex”_ and sits down on the bench nearby.

He’s too close. Because Hamilton leans into him at once, wrapping his arms around Burr, and now both of their uniforms are filthy with Hamilton’s snot, and it’s in for a penny in for a pound so Burr lets it happen.

He lets Hamilton sob out his explanation of the raid - an ambush really - their spies were fed the wrong information and that’s its own trouble, but right now it is the eight men murdered in a forest that Alex is crying about.

Eight dead: and Hamilton thinks there should have been nine.

Burr hasn’t heard the names of the dead, didn’t want to hear them, doesn’t want to remember, in case he‘d traded stories and pipes and laughter with someone who now lies with bare feet and a swollen belly, eyes pecked out and hollow but still staring upwards, searching endless into the sky.

Alex chokes on grief, literally gagging on the knot of guilt and horror he’s carrying in his throat, and Burr finds himself rubbing small circles into his back. “Shhh,” he says. “Breathe slow.”

“I — I can’t — stop —“

“Hush,” says Burr again.

He used to do this for his sister when she cried, for all she was older than him and smarter too; she’d break down around her monthlies and Burr sat near her like this, rubbed her back, stroked her hair ...

Hamilton’s hair is long too, so Burr tries that old trick and it seems to help, a little. The sobs settle and slow into a pattern, and his grip on Burr’s coat shifts from the strain of a clenched fist to a flat-palmed steady pressure, and his head ...

Alex’s head raises a little bit; now he is resting it on Burr’s chest, now on the shoulder, and now he turns it a little and Burr feels hot breath on his skin.

And Burr —

He can’t move. He wants to move; he wants to push Hamilton away and make a joke and go out and smoke and maybe visit a whore — play cards — anything at all that will make him forget this feeling, this stillness, when a man’s mouth is so close to his skin, so close, and —

“Burr,” says Alex. His voice is raspy, his throat torn and swollen, and he’s moved off now but is no further away: their noses nearly touch, and his eyes —

Burr can count every lash, every freckle.

He hadn’t known Hamilon has freckles; they are faint, just a shade below skintone. He has never been so near enough to notice.

He can’t stop seeing them now.

And he cannot miss the way Alex’s gaze drops low and raises again, heavy with meaning and determination -

And when Alex shifts that last tiny bit, Burr can do nothing but dig his fingernails deep into the flesh of his palms and wait for it — wait for it, wait — until finally finally their mouths are together, and he can let go the breath it feels he’s been holding all his life.


End file.
